


A Family That Kills Together...

by Josies



Series: No Saints Without Sinners [7]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Past Relationship(s), Saints Row 2 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-21 07:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11352306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josies/pseuds/Josies
Summary: Did Doris' miraculous recovery come as a surprise to Troy?Yes.And her inevitable prison break topped off with bullets and explosions and a trail of dead cops?No, not really.





	A Family That Kills Together...

**Author's Note:**

> Troy's my boy. That's all.

 

* * *

  **March 2009**

* * *

 

Troy's greeted by a cheery woman behind a soft-colored counter as he steps into an old diner in Sunnyvale Gardens. He nods back, smiles a bit. He's been a regular for years. For the past two he's been coming to the place five days a week, eleven fifteen am to be specific. It's the only time of the day he lets himself have forty-five minutes of peace and quiet. The only time of the day he turns his phone off and gets a much needed break from all the paperwork, the press, the corporate dicks calling him with their ridiculous demands, and the nutjobs populating their holding cells.

Today he's not feeling it, though. That brief relaxation he normally does as the smell of fresh coffee hits his nose. With every step he takes towards his usual spot, there's this distressing feeling growing deep inside his chest, telling him that something's not right. He tries to shake it off. Probably just a false alarm.

He sits down near the other end of the counter, drops his newspaper next to an ashtray, and smiles again when the same woman brings him a cup of black coffee. The diner's employees know him so well he doesn't even need to ask for it. They chat for a bit, the usual stuff about the weather and long hours, until she tells him that her shift ends early today, and that another waitress will serve him instead. Troy nods and they share goodbyes and, to his great relief, the waitress leaves him to his coffee and paper. His alone time.

The combination of the chatter generated by other customers, the sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen, and the occasional chime of the ready-to-serve bell drifts his mind somewhere else, away from all the build-up stress. That's why he doesn't notice her at first, not until he starts to feel like someone's drilling a hole through his temple with their eyes. He takes a quick glance to his left, then to his right. A young woman sits in the last booth, having ordered nothing, just watching him enjoying his coffee. Do they know each other? Is she a reporter waiting for a chance to bother him? She's wearing sunglasses and a hood over her head, but the loose strays of light pink hair peaking from underneath the fabric, and the full lips painted black, finally give her identity away. A small grin starts to form on her lips and she gets up slowly and takes a step towards him.

Troy's stomach drops and his whole body tenses up in a fracture of a second as a voice in his head puts her name on repeat, along with a lengthy string of curses. _Doris_. He knew this day would come. He's been waiting for this damn day to come ever since he got the call from Stilwater Prison, when the two guards, the absolute waste-of-space dipshits, left her and another inmate alone with one doctor, unsupervised. He knew, _he fucking knew_ highly guarded brick walls on an island wouldn't hold her down. And still, now that she's finally standing in front of him, with a subtle smirk playing on her lips, Troy wishes he were somewhere else. Or that she were somewhere else, as far away from him as possible.

He turns to face her, revealing the piece he's carrying in a shoulder holster under his jacket. He always changes his clothes before heading out for lunch, but never leaves his gun behind. Not now when people who presumably want him dead are loose in the city. "Don't come any closer."

"Woah, chill out, man! It's just me," she speaks as she stops in her tracks and lazily lifts her hands up to show him she's not about to pull a gun on him. She's not there for a fight, but he doesn't know that. It's fair to assume she's royally pissed off at him, that she's looking for revenge. This isn't how she would kill him, though. He should know that much. He should know she would go for something much classier, something she could brag about later on, and putting a bullet between his eyes in a lousy diner isn't that. She can't recall any respectable murder happening at noon. That's just ridiculous.

"Stay right fucking there," he snarls through his teeth, his jaw clenched, and fingers still on the gun. He doesn't need a diner full of innocent bystanders being turned into a shooting site. Even less he needs to be part of that himself.

"Is this how you greet an old friend?" She tilts her head to the side, slightly pouting. "A girl can't even take a small nap without everyone losin' their manners in this city."

"You shouldn't be here." Honestly, he expected her to one day blast through the precinct's doors with guns blazing, Johnny right behind her, the two of them slaughtering everyone inside, and then flying off in a chopper while the building goes down in a sea of flames behind. Considering that option, what's happening right now just might turn out to be the way he prefers to meet her. As long as she keeps her trigger-happy fingers in check. "Are you armed?"

"Of course I'm fuckin' armed, Troy," she snorts as she rolls her eyes behind the purple-tinted sunglasses, not bothering to care about his paranoid-like behavior. "Do you have any idea how many people want me dead in this shithole of a city?" Affectionately speaking. Might be a shithole, but it's still dear to her.

He watches her for a moment, slowly relaxing, though not planning on letting his guard down. Doris might look sort of innocent with her light pink braids and her short height, but she's as predictable as a fucking hurricane. He's convinced that any storm named Doris during her lifetime has been, in fact, named after her.

"Heard Dex took a try," Troy speaks after trying — and failing — to read her body language. Still as unreadable as she used to be. For a second he wishes he had reconsidered the words he said before actually letting them leave his mouth. He just might be asking for a demonstration of the unpredictability of Hurricane Doris, there. They used to be a thing, Dex and her. A real happy young couple. Safe to assume that's not the case any longer.

She frowns as she takes a seat next to him. Not a pleasant topic, then. Just as he thought. "I woulda preferred flowers, or maybe another sniper rifle, as a welcome back gift, but I guess he thought a full-blown assassination scheme'd work better. Newsflash — it didn't." She can make her snarky remarks and joke about it all she wants, but hearing him mention Dex makes her ache. Something she will strictly keep to herself.

Troy lights up a cigarette. She notices he's still relying on the same cheap-ass brand, even though his salary must be much higher these days. He blows smoke out through his nose before speaking. "Not for Julius, at least."

"Why you bringin' him up?"

"Don't play dumb, Doe. You know he's dead."

She purses her lips in a borderline pleased manner. Troy just used the nickname people called her back when she joined the crew. How casual. Maybe her little plan will play out to her advantage, after all. "You sayin' I killed him?"

"I don't know," he replies. "Did you?"

"Not sayin' I did, but that bitch had it comin'."

"Yeah?"

"He tried to kill me and took two years away of my life," she snaps suddenly, not a hint of resentment in her cold voice. She's still sour over the whole thing. In the end, revenge never feels the way you expect it to. "Cop or not, you know I'm fuckin' right."

No comments there. He liked Julius. Ultimately, the man wanted to end gang violence. However, Troy still doesn't get why he took Doris as his right hand, and then blamed her for being a sociopathic killer, even though he knew damn well what she was like in the first place. He seemed to have no problem with her taking care of his dirty business while he was in charge. A big-ass error that ended up costing Julius his life. The old man did have it coming.

He figures a subtle change of subject might be in order. "I'm surprised you still remember this place."

"Sure I do," she says as she watches him put out his cigarette, sticking a toothpick between his lips instead, and picking up his cup of coffee. "You took me here after our first big job together and bought me lunch. Best chili cheese fries I ever had."

"Well, that turned out to be a mistake," he grunts into his half-finished cup of coffee, obviously referring to the fact his secret sanctuary isn't much of a secret anymore.

"Why? I haven't done shit to you."

"No, you're just actively wrecking up my city like a human bulldozer on dope."

"It's _my_ city."

He glances at her now and rolls the toothpick between his lips in a thoughtful habit. "What do you want, Doe?"

"Chili cheese fries would be great, thanks."

"Seriously?"

"And a vanilla coke."

It's no use arguing with her. Troy knows it well, still remembers what she was like as the newly appointed leader of the Saints before the unfortunate boat accident. Daring, stubborn, borderline psychotic when it came to people who tried to cross her. Or people who tried to stand between her and junk food. Or her and blow. Or her and... Well, there were lots of things that pissed her off, lots of things people had to watch out for if they wished to stay on her good side. And that's definitely the side you want to be on. Troy's not sure which side he's on currently. He's glad there's nobody witnessing the situation he's trapped in. It's fucking ridiculous. There she is, this small gangbanger girl, unnerving him, the Chief of Police. At least she hasn't shoved anything sharp between his ribs. Yet.

He sighs inaudibly. Fine, he'll buy her lunch. The exact same lunch he bought when he first brought her here, to be precise, _there's gotta be some kinda symbolism to that_ , because maybe that will pacify her for the moment. Maybe he will get to live another day with all his limbs intact.

Another waitress behind the counter takes Troy's order, eyeing them cautiously as she writes it all up on her notepad. Clearly she's noticed the tension. She's new. He hopes she can be as discreet as the other employees. He values his privacy above all else.

Before they can continue their conversation, Doris' phone rings, _I gotta take this_ , and she immerses herself in a fast-paced chat in Spanish. Troy figures it's probably her brother. He understands bits and pieces, but when sensitive subjects start popping up — like hookers and Loa Dust and disturbingly specific body counts — he decides it's best to unfold the newspaper waiting next to the ashtray and concentrate on the printed collection of bad news instead.

She only hangs up when the waitress brings them the food Troy ordered. They eat in silence, though it's not the awkward type. They also ate in silence years back, even if the reason they were silent then was because she barely ever talked during the first few months. This brings him back. It's almost... nice.

Finishing up his meatloaf, a Thursday lunch special he always orders, Troy is the one to speak up first. "So?"

"I'm thinkin' we should work together," Doris replies simply. Better to just slap the actual reason behind this little half-blind date right on the table. No dancing around the subject.

"No."

She scowls. It's almost shocking how unsurprising the man can be. Guess he used up all of his element of surprise on the day his true occupation unraveled. And she didn't even get to witness it. Figures. "Don't be a bitch, Troy," she sighs, delivering the words in a dramatic manner, and he throws a glare her way. She takes her sunglasses off. He notes her eyes are still as piercing as ever. "Come on, you know we could make a good deal. Or did you cut a deal with another crew already? Maero? The freaky voodoo guys? Shit, don't tell me it's Akuji. You wouldn't really do that to me, right?"

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

"You know damn well."

"Yeah, you're the Chief. Blah blah. Who the fuck cares?"

He glares at her in his scolding, big-brotherly way. Again. "Do I really have to say I do?"

"I'm just sayin'." She moves the rest of her french fries around on the plate to form a frowning face, kind of expecting him to tell her to stop playing with her food. He doesn't. "We could make this work. Just quit being so fuckin' uptight. What'd they do to you after that promotion?"

"Why'd you even wanna work with me?" He brings up the question bothering him. "I'm the reason nearly every member of your previous gang are behind bars now."

"Considering I got evidence of you havin' no part in planting that bomb on Hughes' boat, I'm being honest when I say you coulda done worse."

"Wait, what evidence?"

She smiles at him. Like a normal person. It's alarming. "It's amazing what people just leave lyin' around."

"What—"

"Why isn't Stilwater PD more concerned about Gat runnin' free on the streets?" She interrupts him. She has a busy schedule and she doesn't have time for his questions. Especially the kind of questions he can answer himself with little effort. "I mean, he did try to kill you."

He shrugs. Catching Johnny Gat once was the eighth miracle, and in Troy's opinion it should be written down in history books as such, so the odds of catching him twice... "There's an arrest warrant for him."

Fair enough, she thinks to herself, not needing him to convince her of the fact that his men just can't catch Johnny again, or in most cases don't even want to try. On to the next question. "Why didn't you let 'em pull the plug?"

She heard about that, all right. Johnny told her. Whoever knew about Doris lying in a coma, that she was actually alive, well, they wanted her dead, but Troy refused. He firmly kept his stance on the matter, even after months, after years, even when the chances of her ever waking up dropped close to none. Johnny's as baffled over Troy's orders as she is. They both want answers.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Doris chews on a striped straw she picked for her drink. They want answers, but she's not expecting to get any out of him. He doesn't trust her. It's understandable. She doesn't trust him, either. "Why'd you leave my family out of it?"

This is something she would like to hear him answering, though. Back then she was the only official member of the Third Street Saints, but still her family did help her out with the jobs Julius and his lieutenants threw her way, and they often hung around the old church and at the endless number of parties the gang threw. They lived with her in that damn mansion she took with Dex from the Carnales. Troy knew about all that, he knew about her tiny family, but they never got busted by the cops. In fact, her brother told her that Troy made sure they were in the safety of their old apartment in Barrio the day all hell broke loose.

How Marina didn't get busted, well, that's a no-brainer. She's not even related to the Morenos by blood, but Troy was always sweet on her. Maybe she should have thought about including the crazy Russian woman in her deal offer. Spice things up a little.

"Still don't know what you're talking about."

She grins, even chuckles quietly to herself. Because even without answers, things are starting to get clearer. "I liked you, too, Troy. Even if you turned out to be a fuckin' traitor. Nice job, though. I woulda never guessed."

He gives her a quick glance and notices her grin. He can't answer her questions, can't say anything that would suggest he used to consider Doris to be his friend. That he looked after the girl. That the Saints slowly became something of another family to him. That betraying them turned out to be the hardest fucking thing he ever did. "You had your fries, Doe. You should go." That's the correct way to handle this. Keep things distant, and preferably civilized.

"Look, I ain't going nowhere 'til you give me a solid answer. Or a strong maybe. See, I'm feelin' co-operative today. I suggest you use this rare opportunity."

Troy sighs deep, rubs his face with his hand, thinks of a way to flee the diner without Doris putting a bullet through the back of his skull. Doesn't take a genius to realize there's only one way out, not to mention she did make some excellent points with the questions he refused to give answers to. "The best I can do is overlook the charges if you get busted. For a monthly fee, of course."

 _If_ she gets busted. That's how strong his faith in his own department is right now.

"And trafficking."

"Are you shitting me?"

"Nope," she says while checking her phone for the tenth time since they began eating. She's tapping her fingers on the counter, getting on his nerves. She's always restless. "It's gonna happen either way. I don't care if your boys get butchered fightin' a lost cause, but you do. There are four crews, four major players going apeshit on the streets twenty-four seven, and you're runnin' out of cannon fodder. Don't think I don't know this."

"Doesn't mean I'm gonna happily let you traffic drugs and whores and whatever-the-fuck-else you come up with!" Troy yells suddenly, way too loud, and hits his fist against the counter. The waitress behind it nearly drops a plate. Doris turns to look at him, as do almost all the other customers in the diner. He's fuming inside, but he knows he has to pull himself together. Takes only one reporter in the diner listening to their conversation to have him royally fucked. The press would have a field day with the Chief of Police scheming with a supposedly dead gang leader. The gang leader he used to roll with undercover. He can already see the headlines.

"Nobody said you gotta feel happy about it." Doris interrupts the doomsday scenario playing in his head. Her tone is low, almost soothing in a way. A reminder of her excellent manipulation skills. "Trust me on this, Troy. Things'll be hell of a lot easier for you after the Saints wipe out all competition."

She's right. Fuck, she's right. Things toned down last time. And it's true that Troy would prefer low-key fighting one gang, instead of desperately trying to control four gangs turning the whole city into a warzone. He runs his fingers through his hair. It's a calming gesture for him. Then he sighs inaudibly once again before speaking, mimicking her low tone. "What about Ultor?"

"What about 'em?"

"You leave them be."

"So, that's where the deal's at," she chuckles as she spins around on the bar stool to face the other way, leaning her elbows against the counter. She bites down on the straw between her teeth. Of course Vogel's slimy tentacles reach all the way to the police department. Damn that man and his stylish blond hair and fine features. "Stilwater's new golden boy is one fast motherfucker, isn't he?"

She's right again, but he won't say it. As much as Troy would love to get Dane Vogel off his ass, this is something he can't fight. He knows his limits. "Let Ultor do their business, and I'll make sure my guys won't interfere with you wiping out the other gangs."

"I didn't hear the word 'trafficking' there."

"Take what you get, Doe. Don't test your luck."

"Shit, I woke up from a two-year coma," she snorts in her smuggish way, which he has no trouble recognizing. She's overly confident for a woman who woke to a world where everything she previously accomplished means nothing, now. Some things never really change. "Lady luck's got special feelings for me. Like, real warm and fuzzy ones."

He grabs his newspaper and opens it by rustling it loud, hoping for her to take the hint. If she leaves now, he'll still have ten minutes all for himself, and he really needs it to get through the rest of the day. "Bye, Doe."

"Just get in bed with me and lady luck, Troy. I promise you won't regret it." She flashes him a wide, devious grin as she grabs her phone and sunglasses, and heads for the door. "Thanks for lunch, my treat next time!"

It takes Troy a few seconds to register her words, and he turns around on his seat to protest, his brow furrowed, but she's already out, having spotted a car on the other side of the street. He watches her crossing the street and disappearing into the purple Justice waiting for her. Even after the car's long gone, he keeps on crumbling the thin newspaper pages in his fists, receiving nosy looks from the new girl behind the counter. He must look like he just got dumped by his lunch date, when in reality, a second date would be much more of an issue for him. Most likely a big fucking disaster in Doris' infamous style.

_Sweet Jesus, don't let there be a next time._


End file.
